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Although Dazai and Chuuya's paths had been sundered for years now, the detective continued to stumble upon old habits.
Chuuya's penthouse was located halfway between his favorite bar and the ADA, so nothing prevented him, whenever his absence became suffocating, to took a road paved with mistakes and remorse.
He expected that anything changed, that his ex partner still welcomed him with two glass of wine in his hand and a smile that would have melted a devil's heart.
But the truth was: nothing last forever. And the door to Chuuya's apartment also started to be an obstacle.
And remorse, God, it hurted so much.
Remorse is like a scar: it remains imprinted on the skin as a remainder of your sins and as much as you want to make it disappear, hiding it under rolls of sterile gauze, it'll will continue to judge you through tilted mirrors.
Yet, that evening, Chuuya’s door has opened wide like every other time in which, wounded after a mission and too drunk to connect his brain cells, Dazai didn't think that, perhaps, his ex partner wouldn't want to see his traitorous face.Not with the alcohol that burned inside his body like dozens of flaming streaks.
When Dazai saw Chuuya’s expression - muffled anger and pain -, his muscles hardened and that knot of nerves that lurked in the pit of his stomach, whenever their eyes crossed, resurfaced piecewise like an unwelcome neighbor.
The mafioso made his judgmental gaze flow throughout his body, dwelling on a spot of clotted blood that peeked out under a brown strand. " What happened to you this time?" There was concern in his tone, something Dazai hadn’t heard in a long time. He had forgotten what the sound of affection was like, that sweet note that enriched his existence.
A corner of the detective's mouth lifted. " I could say that I was involved in an unpleasant fight, I could say that I drank until I forgot where I was but the truth is that I missed you."
Dazai rub the back of his neck sheepishly and shifted his gaze on the glass of wine that Chuuya cupped between his fingers; the chalice reflected slices of light and the vermilion fluid waved slowly, composing various shades of red.
Chuuya's lips parted slightly and then withdrew into silence. With a nod from his head, he allowed his ex partner to enter his refuge, although indecision reigned in his attitude. He took a sip of wine, and then another, leaving the glass dry, painted only with a tear of liquid on the bottom.
" What do you really want, Dazai?"
Dazai curled up in a corner of the sofa, taking a quick look across Chuuya’s penthouse. It hadn’t changed much since then, when their days were marked by "I love you" and moaning that reverberated through the walls.
"Just spend the night with you."
Chuuya tried to convince himself not to give in, but Dazai seemed really wounded and couldn't let him wander, like a solitary knight, from one bar to another, making him fall into the vice of alcohol.
The mafioso clicked his tongue, laying the glass of wine on the kitchen island." Come with me, I don’t want you to get blood on my new couch." And as much as it tasted like an apology, for Dazai didn’t matter.
He approached the detective, lifting his hand and lacing his fingers with his, and Dazai chased the movement, trying not to be mesmerized by the swaying of his hair, untied and rebellious like sea waves.
Chuuya’s fingers were smooth and silky and Dazai didn't want to let them go. But when they crossed the threshold of the bathroom the heat that shrouded Dazai’s hand vanished, letting the air chill his skin again.
The mafioso turned the shower handle and the water began to flow, tapping against the ceramic floor in myriad drops. Dazai has no problem to strip down in front of Chuuya, even of every layer of bandages that dressed his body. They frayed from his torso and collapsed on the floor, revealing a diaphanous skin in which the sun had never dared to lay its rays.
Wasn’t unfair, being so beautiful?
The detective stepped in the shower, getting soaked with hot steam and water streaks that slipped over his shoulders in a glossy curtain, cleaning up any remnants of the violent encounter.
When Chuuya’s hands reached his body, tracing the lines of his curves while his breath fanning out across his scars, Dazai was overwhelmed. He closed his eyes, letting himself be lulled by chaste kisses and Chuuya's chant: I’m here with you, don't worry.
Their bodies intertwined, wrapped in a dense and sultry cloud, and Chuuya understood that it was useless even to try because each time he'd fall into the same mistakes, each time he'd welcome him with the hope that it'd be different.
He wanted to believe it, with all of himself, because he loved him. He still loved him.
And even for Dazai was the same. That’s why, in spite of everything, he always came knocking on his door again.